Gemotions

It was the sight of the friendly yellow Labrador at the fence that tipped her off. It was usually a signal, a precursor. Sure enough, a moment later, she saw Ms. Miller, the dog’s owner, heading towards her house. Her skin prickled.

She quickly locked the back door, then the front. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. She had only met Ms. Miller once, at the mailbox. The memory of her polite smile felt oppressive now.

She retreated into the back of the house, the cool dimness of the spare bedroom offering a small measure of comfort. She knew what was coming. She felt trapped, encircled. She listened, holding her breath, waiting for the inevitable knock.